


Your Relationship Requires Maintenance

by ReoPlusOne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Arguing, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mating, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReoPlusOne/pseuds/ReoPlusOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Francis have only been together for a few months, but their problems are only beginning.  Alpha!Arthur, omega!Francis.  Porn in the second chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlessedMasochist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedMasochist/gifts).



27 missed calls.  


 _C’est la vie_ , as Francis would say.  And of course he would say it in French, because to say ‘such is life’ in English would be too much for him.  Because when he was flustered (which was, put gently, all the time), anything but French was too rough on his delicate palate.

English, the language spoken by half of the _toilet-using world_ , was too harsh for Francis’ precious mouth.  He only hoped the omega was grateful for Arthur’s parents -- their old money, granted from English-speaking (that is, poor and optionless Welsh) workers, was enough to send little Arthur to a boarding school where he could have the French pronoun tables drilled into his brain.

Je, tu, il, nous, vous, ils.  Blast _everything_.  If Arthur lost his mind to dementia someday he might forget his mate’s face, but there was at least one thing he was sure to never forget.  And as sickeningly nasal as it was, he was grateful for it, because if he didn’t speak French they might have no way to communicate at all when Francis became upset.

Which was most of the time.

Well, in all fairness, ‘most of the time’ was just the average over the 6 months they’d been together.  In the past two weeks that had been abruptly elevated to ‘all of the time, no exceptions’.  Francis spoke French when he was talking to his parents, or when he was upset with Arthur.  In fact, the last words he had spoken in English had been on Bastille Day, two weeks ago: “Fuck you.”, if only.

27 missed calls.

 _Fuck_.  Arthur groaned, and though he hit the 1 on his speed dial he didn’t dare lift the phone to his ear.  The only thing that would come from his cell’s earpiece was an explosion of French that not even his six years of tutoring could help him with.  “Francis, darling, calm down --”

“Don’t you ‘darling’ me, Arthur Kirkland.” Just like his mum, he knew he was in trouble when his surname came into play.  Unlike his mum, Francis did not share it with him; _that_ argument had been the one that started all of this nonsense.

“Um, Francis, look, whatever it is I’m sure it’s alright,”

“That’s just like you isn’t it? So dismissive!” Another avalanche -- the only words Arthur picked out would not be found in any respectable dictionary.

Well, just like fire, the only thing to fight French with was more French, and so Arthur glanced around to make sure his employees weren’t paying attention to him (icing the cupcakes, _brilliant_ ) and leaned into the phone with the best rolling of the tongue he could muster.

“My love, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, you think, ‘if I talk in French he’ll be too dazzled to be mad at me any more’! Well I have some words for you --”

“No, no, I already heard those --”

The dial tone; Francis had hung up.  With a nearly-snapped pen in his hand, Arthur took a moment to reason with himself.  There were worse things in the world than having a mate who was suddenly, inexplicably furious with you -- you know, probably.  Elephants? Elephants trampling his alpha parts would probably be worse than Francis by a little bit.

The oven screamed that its timer was five minutes overdue; it must have gone off while he was busy reciting his pronouns.  Arthur scrambled to its aid.

Actually, the only thing worse than an angry mate was angry customers; at least he got to fuck Francis occasionally.  The pastry business was tough enough as it was, and in spite of being the owner of a pastry shop and an alpha, Arthur’s pride wouldn’t allow him to enter into the miniature cupcake fad.  If his business died, at least it would die with its dignity intact.

Who the hell put bacon on a cupcake, anyway?

The front door bell chimed and, almost-burnt cake in hand, Arthur scurried to the front of the shop to greet --

Francis.

“G-good morning,” For once he was struck almost with panic.  His pre-mated self might have shook his head if he saw the Arthur he’d become! There was once a time when he was head of the rugby team and a regular stud; and now here he was, wearing a pink apron and quivering at the sight of a haughty little omega.

Blue eyes flitted over to the sample of the day; pink, heart-shaped shortbread cookies.  “Who are these for?” French.

Arthur cleared his throat.  “They’re samples, they’re for everyone.”

“Well they’re certainly not for me! Who are you making these hearts for, Arthur?”

Arthur blinked.  He could hear his staff tiptoeing up to peer in on the scene behind him.  “Everyone?”

“Everyone,” He echoed.  Pretty eyes shimmering with tears, Francis flipped the tray over and slammed the front door behind him; the alpha could only watch as his mate took off in the opposite direction of home.

The frozen trance Arthur found himself in finally broke when his head baker Toris shuffled up behind him with a broom and dustpan.

“Sorry, I -- he’s never acted like this before.”

Toris dumped the last of the cookies in the dustbin, wearing his usual smile.  “It’s alright, omegas can get a little crazy sometimes.”

\--

Francis was only getting started.

Arthur got home early that day to find Francis’ car in the park and the extra-strength lock to their bedroom (“for when we have kids, but we want to make more~” Francis purred once) firmly in place.  He had reasoned that his mate’s idea was sound, but as he rattled the unbudging handle he realized that he’d just paid 80 quid to get locked out of his own bed.  He caught the sounds of music (80s, dramatic and shrill, just like Francis) blasting from the master bathroom -- there was no mistaking the sound of Taylor Dayne growing louder as he knocked.

Arthur slept on the sofa listening to the sound of rustling and 80s angst on the floor above; whatever his mate was up to, it took him all night.   



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn. Not safe for work. Do not read if under 18.

He came into the shop late with bags under his eyes and no questions asked the next morning.  Everyone on his staff was mated, and they knew the struggle of a partner’s hormone storm perhaps better than he did, and so they kept their words and snickers to themselves. **  
**

As a lull swept across the shop and the opportunity to sweep up crumbs and wrappers was taken, Arthur slumped into his desk chair and tried to rub away the headache that was forming just behind his temples.  Toris stood in the doorway, offering a reassuring smile and his ears for listening.  

“He wasn’t like this when we got together.  I knew -- I knew six months wasn’t enough time to really tell, but.”

“It certainly happened fast.”

“Yes, well, the divorce is going to happen faster at this rate.”

“That’s a little hasty, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it’s for the better,” Arthur groaned, “He’d get everything though.  The cars, the savings -- fuck, _the shop_ \--”

“Don’t start dividing out your stuff just yet,” Toris laughed.  “Have you shared a heat with him?”

“God, no,” It came as a whisper; Francis was the catch of a lifetime, especially for a pastry shop owner who struggled to grow a solid beard most months.  As much as he trusted Toris and everyone in his shop, the alpha in him loathed to reveal that his mate hadn’t yet had _the_ bite, even to them.  “He had it right before the wedding, and we couldn’t, because, you know, his family --”

“Maybe that’s what it is,” And with a shrug, Toris left.  One glance at the darkness under Arthur’s eyes, and he shut the lights off on his way out.

He was thankful for a moment of sleep, until Francis interrupted it.

Like an abused dog first meeting a stranger, Arthur’s hackles raised as he realized that it was his mate standing in the door -- he stayed that way until the sounds of crying made him inhale, deep and fast.  Francis was before him, sleeves pulled down into his palms, wiping the tears from his eyes like a nightmare-stricken child.

Something in Arthur stirred at the sight, and for once it wasn’t his prick.  The omega was wrapped up in his arms before he could exhale that sad little sniffle, and as he shook he whispered, “I’m sorry,” in English.

“Francis,” Arthur’s brows furrowed, “What’s wrong?”

“Can we just go home?” Arthur never tried to make a habit out of going home early twice in a week, but before he could explicitly say no, Francis was tugging on him and he was inexplicably following.  They were magnetized as Francis’ gait sped up and Arthur scrambled to follow and match his pace.  The front doorbell signaled their departure and out of the corner of his eye Arthur spotted Toris waving goodbye to him.

Francis never looked so perfect as he did at the driver’s seat of his little purple car.  However, as the ignition roared and he rolled his palms across the top of the steering wheel, Arthur noted the trembling of his fingers -- suddenly, they seemed thin and weak.  Head bowed, Francis asked if Arthur could drive.  Arthur did him one better and called a cab to take them the 2 miles home.

They’d owned their house since the day they got married, but to Arthur it felt as if he was walking onto someone else’s property.  A haze had fallen over their cramped little den -- he hadn’t even realized that Francis’ hair was in a ponytail until he was flicking it absently.

Arthur had no false impressions of himself; since Francis had gawked at his proposal (a dark closet, slipping a ring onto a shaking finger all the sudden and muttering, “Here, wear this,”) he’d come to the realization that he was not the romantic sort.  He’d forgotten the one Valentine’s Day they’d been together for, and Francis’ birthday had earned him a last-minute box of chocolates.  The extent of Arthur’s affection was so: flicking ponytails and staring dumbly when his mate cried.

With a sour face and a moment of clarity Arthur wondered if all this might be the reason they had found themselves in trouble.

His fingertips gripped the purple ribbon in Francis’ hair and gently he slipped it down and let it fall to the floor.  In gold, swaying waves that silky hair hung around his mate’s face and painted him as a pouting cherub, innocent and still with a little bit of tear in the corner of his eye.  Instinct and not intent drove Arthur then, pressed his lips to his mate’s forehead and put a hand on his wrist to pull him closer.  

Francis said “Come,” and Arthur did.  Up the stairs and to the left, where every pillow and blanket in the house had been amassed and piled together --

A nest.

Arthur inhaled deeply and realized that Toris must have been right -- but that was as long as his alpha friend lingered in his thoughts.  With a suddenly wriggling omega in his arms Arthur found himself unable to think about anything but him and what they might do together.

Francis shimmied out of his own trousers before Arthur could get to them; he forgot to remove his sweater in his haste but what with how it clung to him so perfectly, Arthur decided that he would allow it to stay.  It was soft against his forehead as he lapped at the space below Francis’ bellybutton.  

As his mate fell backwards on the bed Arthur realized that there might be a good reason their house had never felt like home.  It wasn’t because it never smelled like the house he grew up in, or because the oven was smaller than he hoped it would be -- it was because no place on Earth would feel like home until he made it that way.  Until he and _Francis_ made it that way.

And they weren’t wasting any time either.

Francis liked it on his back.   _I like to look at you_ , he’d said once, and Arthur had laughed and asked _why the hell would you want to look at me while I’m fucking you?_

Watching Francis, however -- _that_ was different.  There was nothing about him that didn’t captivate him, nothing that wasn’t delicious.  There was nothing about him that was _unwatchable_ , frankly.  Francis rolled his tongue across his lips as Arthur mimicked that same motion across his cock and reached below to stroke his own neglected self.  He wanted to get to it, and soon, but the name of the game was patience, and Francis had proven himself as someone who required a lot of it recently.

The memory of the way his mate had behaved for the past month hit Arthur like a dulled thump somewhere in the distance.  It mattered so little he wondered why he’d been so upset about it at all.  How could he be upset with a cock on his tongue and moans in his ears?

Francis rolled his hips up, and Arthur could taste the readiness in him; he was soaked with slick.

It was hard not to drool.

Arthur knew how to unwrap the present that was his mate, and he tugged at the tear-damp sleeves of Francis’ sweater and savored his first look at the beautiful bare chest beneath.  His cheeks were flushed a perfect pink, his eyelids low and fluttering --

‘You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ Arthur thought, but didn’t say.  From the coy little smile that was offered to him, his mate seemed to understand.  As defiant as Francis loved to be in bed, it had to have been the heat that made him obey when Arthur pressed a hand to his hip and muttered, “Over,”

On his knees, palms on the mattress, his mate was prettier than he’d ever been; Arthur found his ability to take time appreciating the view waning and so he only allowed himself a moment to grip his ass, squeeze and give it a firm smack before he hit his own knees.

“Please,” Francis gasped as he felt Arthur’s cock on him.  He knew Arthur well enough to know that he would take all the time he wanted, and the thought of it wrung a knot in his stomach.  “Please, Arthur.”

Arthur wasn’t about to give his mate what he wanted, but he would at least give him something.  The sensation of his cock running between soft, squishable asscheeks was a good one; the fact that Francis was arching back into him with growing impatience was just an added bonus.  

“Please,” Francis said again with a slur to his tone -- there wasn’t a drop of wine in him, only the heat and the need for his mate inside him, and he was getting drunker every second.

Arthur could still stand to wait, although the beast inside him, too, was starting to yearn.  If he were on his own in the room, alone to his own devices and pleasure, he might not be able to keep himself held back.  But he had someone to impress, and Arthur didn’t want to disappoint his mate in their very first heat.

“Fuck me,” Francis pleaded like a kitten and Arthur was ready to lose his damn mind.  He heard the agony in his mate’s voice, the fear that his alpha might never mount him, might never knot him.  

That was his cue to do so.

In one solid movement Arthur slid in all the way, and his satisfaction came not from the warm slickness around his cock but the hiss that came from behind Francis’ teeth, the curl in his toes as he bent inwards like a praying, dying man.  “Oh, _Jesus_ ,”

“Not sure how I feel about you calling out another man’s name in bed, dear.” Long golden locks felt perfect between Arthur’s fingers, and even better still when he pulled them back and held his mate, back arched backwards, while he slammed inside again.

“Please --” For the first time, it seemed, they were on the same page.  Arthur’s knot was growing bigger, Francis was bending ever further back to meet him, and they found a weird sort of harmony in the moment before Arthur’s instinct washed over him with one singular intention: give the omega what he wanted.

It felt like an impossible fit to the heat-swamped numbness of Arthur’s mind.  He pressed against Francis and tried to get his knot in gently, but when the sounds his mate made turned from moans to whimpers, he had no choice but to stop.  Here, again, was their predicament.  Francis could not yield and Arthur was left utterly dumbfounded.

“Get on your back,” Francis murmured.  With his mouth firmly pressed into goose down, it was muffled, but Arthur got the gist: his method wasn’t working.  It was time to let the lover extraordinaire have a go.

Legs spread, the omega positioned himself and sat back, his hips miraculously forward, and it was Arthur’s turn to curse God’s name aloud.  Francis was a sight to behold, all sweaty bangs and high cheekbones and lip-biting glory when he rode Arthur to the brink -- 

Francis said “Come,” and Arthur did.  

There he was -- his beautiful, perfect omega, gasping but knotted, finally knotted.  It was everything he’d seen in his wet dreams, everything that pushed him over the edge.  It was the taste of Francis’ lips on his, sweaty and tasting like cologne and the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.  

Arthur wasn’t the only one who gave a shiver, but he was the only one of them to laugh, and the only one the get an exhausted but stern look in return.  


“What are you laughing at?”

“You,” Arthur said, with a silly grin, “You’re so beautiful.”

\--

Two months later, Francis had given his entire wardrobe away and bought a new, maternity-friendly one.

Arthur had finally managed to grow something of a beard ( _perhaps it’s all the testosterone_ , Francis said with a little swoon in his voice) and, in anticipation of the new little one, gave his managerial duties over to Toris to become the proper worrying, doting father he was made to be.

_27 missed calls._

Francis could only smile and lift the phone to his ear.   



End file.
